Transitions
by The Lilac Pilgrim
Summary: InAlienable fic. Contains spoilers. Shilling got what he wanted in the end. So why does he not feel any better? Rated for language.


A/N: I hate author's notes, but this is to explain my motives. I didn't like the fact that we don't find out what happened to Shilling after all the drama. Contains **spoilers**. Also, added an OC character because, well, Shilling doesn't seem to have many friends and I wanted some dialogue. Gave Shilling a first name for obvious reasons.  
Obligatory disclaimer: Of course I don't own InAlienable, the story is Walter Koenig's. I don't know or own Mr Koenig, nor do I own or work for Renegade Studios. Et cetera, et cetera.

* * *

He was beginning to feel it now; the fracture he'd sustained in the fight in the courtroom. His forearm was burning, and no matter how he positioned it he couldn't get comfortable. At his age he should have learned it long ago - never try to fight someone who is willing to kill for their child. Not that you could call Eric Norris' _parasite_ a child. He gave a long, hissing sigh through his teeth as he tried to continue his one-handed typing, the fractured arm resting loosely by the keyboard.

"Come on, Shilling," he growled impatiently, as though urging his body to pull itself together. He had been typing for nearly three hours and written just over three pages. Not his usual standard. He was supposed to be at home, relaxing, sleeping, getting his energy for the next day of endless research, but here he was, fresh determination guiding his one capable hand over the keys. Occasionally he'd tried typing with his other hand and he had been rewarded each time with searing pain, reaching up to his shoulder, making him cry out.

After one more page, fatigue and anger finally got the better of him. He quickly saved the file and shut down the computer. The heavy drowsiness dampened the irritation he was feeling, and so it was with quiet surrender that he rose from the computer chair and shuffled listlessly out of his office. The goodnight wishes from his colleagues were met with either a quick nod or a cold shoulder as he made his way out. Pausing at his car a moment, he took a bottle of pills from his pocket and easily managed to swallow two of the small caplets - painkillers, which so far weren't working. He had been advised not to drive with his arm in such a state. He had decided not to care.

--

The other, more minor injuries began to hurt while he lay caught between sleep and consciousness. The punches to his stomach, the gripping hands on his shoulders, the various kicks and accidental hits caught, meant for someone else. Or perhaps they _were_ meant for him: after all, it was quite a scene; a mess of arms and legs, with the added threat of the alien monster who could have (and probably would have) snapped his neck at any point. It was a miracle that Emil got it in time, or it might just have noticed him wrestling with its' host. Then what? He managed a wry smile, thanking whatever power there was that it was only his arm, that all he got were a few kicks and punches.

And after all, he has got exactly what he wanted. His revenge had tasted so sweet. Everything had gone quiet when the shot was fired. Norris had pushed him up and off - that must have been how the bruises on his back happened. The foolish moron then had rushed to the… thing's side, to cradle it as it stopped living. As it died. As his lover had when Norris had murdered them. When that neurotic bastard had removed his one last chance for happiness. And now, someone had ripped away his; it was all so perfect.

Not anymore.

Shilling groaned loudly. The burning in his arm was bringing him back into consciousness, and now it seemed sleep wouldn't be an option tonight. Swaying in agony, he grabbed at his cellphone and keyed in a number. The familiar sound of the dial tone rang out loud in the darkness.

"_Hello?"_ answered a tired, growling voice after not too long. Shilling gave a gasp as he turned to attempt once more to get comfortable.

"Hi Greg," he struggled. "Tell me, my friend; do you still make house calls?"

--

After a brief hello and a few physiological tests, Shilling definitely didn't feel any better. The man named Greg sighed deeply and settled down next to his friend.

"Well, the reactions you're feeling are normal as far as I can tell," he murmured, holding back a yawn. "The bruises on your chest indicate some kind of blunt force --"

"The bastard kicked me," the older man hissed through gritted teeth, trying his best to shuffle into a better position. Greg nodded, pressing gently on Shilling's chest. The touch was met with soft, pained moaning and a childish squirm.

"Nothing's broken, other than your wrist, obviously," the doctor reassured him. "You've been lucky."

"You say 'lucky'." The scientist strained against the pain, at the same time trying to keep his fractured limb out of further harm's way. "I'm not quite so sure."

There was a pause. Breathing was the only sound; the laboured, harsh breathing of Dr Shilling as he gave up his struggle for relief; the gentle, whistling breath of the young doctor as he breathed through his nose. Many minutes passed before a voice broke the silence.

"Alex, just how much do you hate Eric Norris?"

Shilling looked up, his hazel eyes searching the grey ones of his friend. The question was serious, sincere. He breathed deeply.

"I don't."

"Don't give me that," Greg warned, turning to properly face the scientist. "Every time you two were together you were at odds. For a long time, Norris didn't even know he was in a fight. You can't deny it; you loathed him for what he did to you."

"And can you blame me?" Shilling twisted to get a better look at Greg. Emotions were coming to him that only ever did in secret. "He stole her from me; the _nerve_… And then he murdered her. He took her away and made her unhappy. He fathered the son that should have been mine and destroyed him, too. He destroyed _me_."

Greg swallowed audibly; making a slight _click_ing sound.

"Alex, you're aware of the phrase 'It takes two to tango'?"

"I know of it, of course," Shilling responded with a smirk. "But if you're asking for lessons, I'm afraid you're on your own."

"You know what I mean."

The older man's breath caught in his throat for a moment. When it managed to escape, it rattled out, an undertone of anguish in the shaky sigh it caused.

"I know," he said, looking down at his own hands. Greg put a firm hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Look, Alex," he said softly. "I understand that you were mad at Norris. Any man would be. But she was just as guilty as he was, and you know it."

"I do know it," Shilling agreed, voice wavering a little. "I just never wanted to believe it."

The pain in his body was becoming just too much now; every muscle and bone was aching and throbbing.

"Oh God, please tell me you've got _something_ in that bag of yours," he groaned, looking over at the doctor's book bag. Greg gave him a tired smile.

"I believe so…" He grabbed the bag and began reaching for something, his brow furrowed in an expression of confusion as he tried to remember exactly where he'd put "the damned stuff". Eventually, a look of triumph came over his face, and he pulled a small bottle of capsules out of the bag. He tossed them to Shilling, who caught them, but not without difficulty. He read the label.

"Tramadol," he read out loud, an eyebrow raised sceptically. "I'm already taking co-codamol."

"When did you last take a co-codamol?"

"About four hours ago, maybe."

"Stop taking co-codamol," the doctor growled, stretching off his tried muscles, "And start taking the Tramadol instead. Wait a few hours first, though."

Shilling nodded, putting the bottle down beside him on the bed. He smiled at his friend.

"I hope you don't carry those things around with you all the time," he whispered hoarsely. "They're supposed to be prescription only."

"I'll write out the prescription later," Greg responded with a smirk. "But right now, you need your rest."

"I won't be able to." The older man looked down at the hard wooden floor, not really looking at it, but past it, deep in thought. "All this…. All these feelings conflicting. I should be happy with the outcome. So why am I still so frustrated?"

There was another pause as Greg placed all of his medical equipment back into the book bag, and a click as he closed it over. He rose to leave, slowly, as though trying not to disturb a sleeping child.

"Well," he spoke tentatively as he reached the door, leaning against the frame. "Maybe you still feel the same because nothing really changed. You got what you wanted but still ended up with nothing."

Shilling still remained with his back to the doctor, who waited for a response. He knew his friend was too proud to say anything, too stubborn to allow himself to agree to such a notion, but he could have sworn as he turned to exit, he heard the smallest whisper, a tiny voice surrendering the answer "You're right." But maybe what he heard was sheer fantasy, as his friend stayed so still, seemingly completely in deep thought, probably looking for another, better, easier explanation.

"I'll let myself out, Alex," he sighed. "If you need anything, just call me."

The door to the outside world clicked open and shut. Shilling was alone again.

"Alone," he considered aloud. "That's what it is."

The thought frustrated him, angered him, but glancing at his clock and realising he had work in seven hours annoyed him even more, and with a defeated growl, he dragged his body into an uncomfortable lying position, his fractured arm resting on a pillow by his head, and attempted to get some sleep.

Needless to say, the attempt proved unsuccessful.


End file.
